Page 11 of Threadbound

Bran huffed out a breath and settled deeper into his feathers. He couldn’t decide if he liked the idea that he’d been cursed or the idea that the Fates owed him an incredible future in compensation for being tied to this Lugh-forsaken half-breed.

The question theBean Nighehad asked him echoed through his head.

“And what is it, child, that will make giving all that you have worthwhile?”

Bran still didn’t have an answer.

He wanted to be able to say that he would give everything he had to help his father win the coming war, but he knew it wasn’t true. He was willing to give his life to support Cairn mac Darach to defeat the tyrannical Sidhe King—Bran’s grandfather. As long as his father’s claims remained just, of course. Which was the difficulty with using that as an answer to theBean Nighe’s question—because Bran was only willing to support Darach mac Craobh-na-Beatha’s overthrow so long as what would replace him was worthwhile.

Bran would give his father his life—but not his principles. And not his soul.

He didn’t know what he’d be willing to give those for.

A shudder rolled through his feathered frame as his unstable magic gave him a chill in spite of the warm summer night.

Dunatis keep me whole.

He didn’t want to have to deal with this half-breed, and he really didn’t want to be magically bound to him forever, but Bran also knew he didn’t have many options left, short of risking madness and killing the poor sod. But while Bran was no stranger to violence, he also wasn’t a murderer. He’d never killed anyone without good reason, and simply not liking the half-breed wasn’t a good reason, whatever cruel legends the Sidhe had told the humans about their Sluagh brethren.

To the Sluagh, Taranis, goddess of death, was deeply worthy of respect and honor, but it was because of that respect and honor that they did not casually or idly inflict death upon others. For the Sidhe, death was a punishment; for the Sluagh, death was worthy of worship and sacrifice. That didn’t mean that they ran about killing humans willy-nilly, which is what most people who knew of their existence seemed to believe they did. Not tosay that the Sluagh hadn’t killed humans—of course they had, for as many reasons as humans had for killing each other.

Human legends, however, depicted his people as bloodthirsty, cruel, and dark. The last of those might have been true—the Sluagh court, the Court of Shades, thrived on the darkness of night, worshiped Taranis, and understood that pain and death were an inextricable part of the cycles of life. The creatures of the Court of Shades were predators, had claws and teeth meant for rending, and often had to kill to live—but it was never done idly or without purpose and respect.

Yet in the stories told by humans around their fires—or whatever passed in this modern age for fires in human society—were of monsters and beasts that killed without purpose or compunction. Creatures who wasted life rather than making careful use of the mortal remains that were left when the soul left the body behind.

They were contrasted with their opposites—the Sidhe, the Sunlit Court, bright and beautiful. The legends spoke of kindly creatures, playful, tricksters, perhaps, but harmless ones. The Sidhe were whispered of in awed and reverent tones, while the Sluagh were spoken of only as warning tales to travelers and children in the dark.

Bran had no idea what his half-breed thought of the Sluagh or the Sidhe, or whether the brute even knew of their existence at all. He supposed that depended very much on whether or not the half-breed’s human mother had been aware of the inhuman nature of his father.

Bran had no idea if she’d known.

Bran only cared insomuch as he’d probably have to somehow explain it all to the half-breed himself before the ritual was completed. Well, he didn’t technicallyhaveto explain anything, but he could imagine that simply dragging the half-breed into Elfhame was likely to be a much bigger headache if the manhad no idea what was happening to him. Perhaps those who advised simply charming and abducting the half-breed were of the right mind—at least hauling an unconscious man through the Gate would probably be much easier than an awake and struggling one, and even that seemed more likely than being able to convince the man of the truth.

If Bran’s own experience of Dunehame was any indication, humanity had mostly forgotten—or dismissed as fable—everything to do with Elfhame and the fae. If he started explaining about the fae and threadbinding, the half-breed was probably going to dismiss him as either delusional or a very strange con artist.

He wondered which of those situations was going to be the least irritating to deal with.

Another magic-induced shudder rolled through his body.

Habetrot, help me, he thought.

If the goddess of healing and weaving heard him, she did not give any sign.

Chapter

Six

Bran once more found himself standing at the gate to the Surgeons’ Hall, staring with some amount of confusion and annoyance at the glass doors that led to the museums where the half-breed worked. While, yes, he recognized that the threadbond between himself and the half-breed essentially required that he didn’t have much of a choice in spending time in the same general vicinity as the half-human oaf, Bran found himself oddly compelled to go back into the museum while the half-breed was working.

Bran couldn’t decide if he was more irritated that he felt drawn to the museum and the half-breed or more disgusted that he couldn’t resist the pull. He’d even thought about using theBean Nighe’s tisane in order to weaken the geas, but decided to just let Condatis take him where he would. Because Bran had the feeling that the god of meetings had decreed it was time for them to stop circling one another, much as Bran dreaded the thought.

Might as well get it over with.

So he let his feet carry him up the stairs and back into the museum’s lobby, where he stopped.

The half-breed was standing behind the desk, bent over and talking to the same cheerful woman who had been there a fewdays before. The man was laughing about something, and the sound was so oddly musical that Bran found himself rooted to the spot.

He pushed through the feeling quickly, annoyed and a little alarmed at the way the half-breed’s laughter had made his gut flutter.

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